


I’m Out of My Depth at This Altitude

by vargrimar



Series: The Chambers and the Valves [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Autistic Sherlock Holmes, Canon Compliant, Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, Falling In Love, Fluff, Introspection, Light Angst, M/M, Pining, Pre-Relationship, Season/Series 03, and here we have the stag night, it's literally just sherlock being dumb and drunk with copious amounts of pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 11:34:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22849489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vargrimar/pseuds/vargrimar
Summary: God, thefeeling. Centred just beneath his collarbone, it brims between the slats of his ribs like it wants to push right through his pores. It’s overhydration, filling every living cell to its maximum capacity; atoms and molecules inundate the vault caging his lungs, an entire ocean full. If someone were to open him navel to sternum, the world would drown before his body emptied.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: The Chambers and the Valves [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1640680
Comments: 1
Kudos: 49





	I’m Out of My Depth at This Altitude

**Author's Note:**

> ( what if we could risk  
> everything we have  
> and just let our walls cave in? )

“Am I the current King of England?”

He watches John laugh, and for the smallest of moments, Sherlock thinks he could spend the rest of his days like this.

Like this: two simple words with an arbitrary meaning entirely dependent on context, and yet somehow able to capture everything encompassing this single point in time.

Language is stupid because Sherlock is a polyglot who knows German and Russian and French and Spanish and generous fractions of Mandarin and Farsi and Serbian and Hindi and so many others, and still there are no adequate words in any dictionary to describe his desire to freeze these seconds in place, to preserve them and pin them upon the wall like dried specimens so that he might always glance at them to remind himself that John Watson is undoubtedly the best thing that could have ever happened to a man without a heart.

Like this: specifically, John sitting in his (rightful) chair, John giggling at their combined ineptitude, John soft and smiling and pliant in a way Sherlock has never seen.

This new flow of data feels like nicotine, a pleasant buzzing along the edge of his skull as if someone were humming a low note into the shell of his ear. He wants to catalogue and commit every minute detail to the John Wing because the John there should have this John’s mirthful smiles, his wheezy laughs, his flushing cheeks. The John there is good already, yes, but he’s not perfect because doppelgängers are only as good as their data and he’s woefully incomplete, woefully unreal. Sherlock has generous amounts of data on John, but there are still so many missing facets—

_What does John feel like when he is sound asleep in his bed?_

_What does John look like when he wakes with affection in his eyes?_

_What does John taste like when he kisses someone he loves?_

_What does John sound like when he’s balanced on the very brink?_

—that he could never discover on his own.

Like this: it’s been so long since his chest has felt this full. He can’t recall the exact moment. It must have been sometime before he died. The memories are a bit slick, like they’ve been drizzled in oil and his fingers can’t quite claim purchase, but he remembers the feeling.

God, the _feeling_. Centred just beneath his collarbone, it brims between the slats of his ribs like it wants to push right through his pores. It’s overhydration, filling every living cell to its maximum capacity; atoms and molecules inundate the vault caging his lungs, an entire ocean full. If someone were to open him navel to sternum, the world would drown before his body emptied.

“You know we don’t have a king,” says John, laughter creasing his eyes.

“Don’t we?” Sherlock asks.

John shakes his head, lazy and amused and half-believing. “No.”

Perhaps Sherlock ought to keep better track of these things. Might make certain cultural references easier to understand. But then again, maybe not. Not if he can get John to smile like that. It’s heartrendingly gorgeous.

He wants more.

“Your go,” says Sherlock, and leans back into the soft leather of his chair. The whisky feels heavy in his hand as he draws it to his mouth. It’s good. Bitter. Adds to the amassing warmth already curling within his chest. Is it supposed to feel like you’ve got a fire in there? Maybe it is. He can’t remember. Doesn’t matter. It’s good, too.

Unfolding his legs, John leans forward to comply. He staggers at the edge of his chair for a few seconds, unbalanced, as if his mind were swimming. (Sherlock understands; it feels like his own mind is adrift somewhere amidst the tropics.) John then reaches out with a hand to steady himself, and that hand happens to clamp down upon Sherlock’s right knee.

Sherlock swallows his whisky. It’s magma down his throat, pouring and warm. His lungs must be ablaze. He glances down to consider the new pressure at his leg because not only is it a hand, it is a hand that belongs to John, and that is sacred, he thinks; that is _right_.

As if in agreement, John’s fingers squeeze into Sherlock’s knee. John sways for what seems to be an eternity as his equilibrium shifts back into place. His gaze drifts down to his own hand, and a countenance of obvious puzzlement furrows his features: _Oh. When did that happen? We’re doing this now?_

Yes, Sherlock thinks. Yes, this is something we’re doing now. Apparently. And it’s—

_Amazing. Extraordinary. Brilliant. Fantastic._

_Not nearly enough._

… good.

John withdraws his hand. It isn’t done with haste or discomfort, but with a degree of bemused nonchalance. The withdrawal melds into an exaggerated shrug, palms skyward, and Sherlock cannot help but track the one that had been clasped round his knee not seconds ago: John’s left hand, his _dominant_ hand, the hand he writes with, cooks with, cleans his teeth with, the hand he probably—

“I don’t mind,” says John. It’s firm, decisive, down a register. (Can a voice sound molten? Surely it can.) John’s left hand then settles upon his own leg, open, splayed, rubbing at the denim of his jeans as the other comes to serve as a rest for his chin. His body remains craned forward, pointed but not corrected. (What does that mean?)

Sherlock opens his mouth to reply because he doesn’t mind, either. He doesn’t mind John leaning across the open chasm between their chairs. He doesn’t mind John’s hand on his knee. He doesn’t mind John’s lower voice or his breathy laughs or the amused crinkles by his storm-blue eyes. Sherlock doesn’t mind at all. God, he’d be mad to mind.

But the half-shaped sound of _anytime_ he vaguely recognises coming from his own mouth is drowned out by a single question: “Am I a woman?”

And something about this—the situation, the game, the whisky, the warmth, the proximity—makes Sherlock devolve into a long, hissing snicker.

“What?” John’s tone is light. He keeps his attention on Sherlock and does not shy away. In fact, he leans in further.

“Yes,” Sherlock replies, and takes the opportunity to pull himself upright and adjust his posture as the room seems rather keen on swirling and he needs to get a better look at John because John is handsome and incandescent and the flat’s lamps have him steeping in this glorious sort of golden _glow_ that makes Sherlock want to cram himself as close to John’s personal space as humanly possible.

“Am I… pretty?” John points to the note on his brow. “This.”

Sherlock must bite his tongue because it’s just—it’s a stupid question, really. In both contexts. Obvious in one and arbitrary in the other. John is, of course, pretty; Sherlock can’t be arsed to care about the person pasted on John’s forehead.

So he says, “Beauty is a construct based entirely on childhood impressions, influences, and role models,” because it’s the truth and he thinks it gets his thoughts across rather well, though he can’t quite remember where he read it. Some scientific journal or something. Perhaps a study in human psychology? Doesn’t matter. He must have retained it for some reason or another. Superfluous or unnecessary information is always discarded, much like the shredding of papers from a filing cabinet, and Not Pissed Sherlock must have seen value in the quote somewhere.

Hm. Attractive people. Or what people find attractive. Yes, that’s it. Relevant? Maybe. No, not maybe. _Likely_. Attractiveness is an asset. Others use it to their advantage in all sorts of situations. So does Sherlock. People are always more willing to talk when presented with a pretty face and a charming smile.

What does John find attractive?

“Yeah,” says John, “but am I a pretty lady?”—which, honestly, is not at all seeing the point.

Regardless, Sherlock decides to humour him. He leans forward and squints at the little paper stuck to John’s brow.

The word _MADONNA_ is written there in his own scratchy lettering. The name does seem familiar, though neither face nor data comes to his rescue. In his defence, the shape of John’s face (rounded nose, lower cheekbones, brilliant eyes, light eyelashes, warm laugh lines) is far more interesting than a slim rectangle of paper or anything that might ever be written on a slim rectangle of paper. Whoever Madonna is, he’s certain she could never hope to rival the fascinating personage that is John Hamish Watson.

Sherlock comes to terms with this easily. “I don’t know who you are. I don’t know who you’re supposed to be.”

“You picked the name!” John dips backward, exasperated.

“Yeah,” he says, affording the cluttered sitting room a casual sweep of his hand, “but I picked it at random from the papers.” He’s not sure what else John could have expected. Pop culture has never been his area—among other things.

“You’re not really getting the hang of this game, are you, Sherlock?” says John, and his armchair accepts his body as he sprawls back into it.

That chair must have been made for him, Sherlock thinks. Perfectly sized, perfectly suited. Fate in the form of furniture. John belongs in that chair and that chair belongs at 221B Baker Street; therefore, John belongs at 221B Baker Street. QED.

Really, what does John find attractive?

Mm. No. No. Nope. Not that. Can’t do that. The rectangles. Papers. The Rizla papers. The, uh—the game. The game thing. The clues. Not John. Clues. Papers. Game. Focus. Go on. Talk him through.

“So, I am human,” he says, and his tongue feels a bit thick around ‘human’. Is that normal? Must be. “I’m not as tall as people think I am.” He leans back in his own chair, feeling somewhat displaced. Why do words feel like they’ve all been coated in black treacle? “I’m—I’m nice- _ish_. Clever. Important to some people. But I tend to rub them up the wrong way.”

Sherlock brings the glass toward him in anticipation of another sip, but he stops short as something clicks in the back of his head. Neurons and synapses flash in concert, a spark of recognition like a shard of flint to tinder.

_Yes, you’re human._

_Not as tall as people think._

_… -ish._

_I would say so._

_To s-some people._

_Erm, no, they don’t. You tend to rub them up the wrong way._

And then it all sort of tumbles into place, all these moving parts and oil-slick memories, and they clink together into something that vaguely resembles an epiphany found at the bottom of a whisky glass.

Sherlock exhales a satisfied laugh, pleased with his own deductive skills. Despite the swimmy holiday his brain has gone on without his leave and the healthy warmth smouldering in his chest, he’s still as astute and perceptive as always, and that further stokes the fire.

“Got it,” he declares, triumphant.

John seems too amused. A good look on that handsome, pretty face. “Go on, then.”

Grinning, open and unabashed, Sherlock gestures at John with the tumbler and says, “I’m _you_ , aren’t I?”

Of course, the realisation won’t fully come until tomorrow.

It won’t come until Sherlock has been released from a bloody awful night with John in the drunk tank. It won’t come until he has sagged his way up 221B’s staircase with a splitting headache, feeling like the victim of an errant lorry’s sudden collision. It won’t come until he has stumbled across two curled pieces of slim rectangular paper on the sitting room floor, one with _MADONNA_ written in his own hand and the other with _SHERLOCK HOLMES_ written in John’s. It won’t come until he holds the latter between a thumb and forefinger, tracing beneath the dried ink with his fingerprint as he listens to the faint voices of John and Mrs Hudson in the corridor below.

And then it will slam through him like a punch to the mouth, hot and stinging and brutal: John had tried to make him guess himself.

Those descriptions, those clues, he will realise—they had all been all John’s own admissions. John thinks he’s nice-ish (kind, but occasionally so), John thinks he’s clever (amazing, extraordinary, brilliant), John thinks he’s abrasive (rubs others up the wrong way, but not him) and _important_ (to some people; to John) and not quite as tall as others think he ought to be (taller than John, taller by a whole six inches; oh, he loves it).

But most of all, John thinks he’s human.

John thinks he’s horribly, erringly human.

And Sherlock will clutch at the space over his heart—because John is horribly, unerringly right.


End file.
